gushing wind and the cold night
no soul, no shadow by my side
it is deep and deadly dark inside
shuddering my self-pride,
spewing symptoms of inner blight
tears buffer in the eyes
pleading me guilty
crushing my assumed might
I think of the great good men
the hypocrites, all passing by
in their languid moves of pretense
betraying me with my knowledge
of who am I, but not one of them?
“Who are you?”
Do you ask yourself? I do.
Do I get my answers?
No. I choose not to.
in the dark, I see no one to blame onto
in its sheer silence, I hear no one to my rescue
distraction doesn’t come to me
I am hungry, I am starving, I am mortified
yet so reluctant to feed myself, I decry
having only my ego, my pride on the menu
by no means such hunger-pangs I shall abide
I sleep on it.
©Written Frames, 2019
The skill of escape is mastered by us all.